As it turns out, men of humility don't write on the subject. I learn recently that a well-respected pastor and the author of a beautiful book on humility has been removed from his position of leadership. He's accused of authoritarianism, of being unable to receive correction, of neglecting the practices of corporate confession and personal accountability.
I renew my commitment, here, to be ruthlessly honest.
To tell you that I'm a mess.
It's just yesterday that my voice thunders, sending two little boys scurrying for shelter. I am furious about breakfast debris and the wild state of my desk, which looks like it's been turned on end and shaken furiously. Who can think in the midst of all this mess?
It's this Advent season that I've lived breathless. Restless weeks without punctuation. I am the fool who met December without the necessary margin for Christmas's petulance.
It's this blog, and I am Eve. Writing lurches between good and ultimate, suffering the magnetic lure of becoming the kind of thing I must do, that I cannot live without, my castle of sand.
And most days, it's a quiet anxiety that needles me, fears of forgetting and disappointing and failing. On the surface, I'm all bravado.
Even in this mess, this me all ragged and pocked, I find His arms. Every morning, new mercies. There, in those arms, I find the glorious freedom to admit.
Tell Him what a wreck I am. Confront where I've wounded and resisted and bullied my way forward. Name the moments, see them, grieve my all of my indifference and self-love. Admit the hypocrisies and know that it is my own voice here that condemns. Make room, if not for humility, than for honesty. I recklessly unearth all that is subterranean.
I put the guts on the table.
Advent is the celebration of that steadfast love and the arms that hold us up in the midst of the mess and failure. Jesus came for the wrecked, for the broken, for those admitting they are too far gone. For me. For you.
Advent is an invitation to make room: for the ruthless reckoning that we need a Savior.
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